Glitch
by San Diego Jacket
Summary: The Entity has returned. With a new image, it sets out for conquering the human race, along with revenge on a certain comic book reviewer. Rated for language and minor violent imagery.
1. A Critic's Downfall

_**A/N: Hi, everyone! As you know, Halloween's almost here, and with the end of the King of Worms story arch tomorrow, I've been thinking about the Entity quite a bit. And, with those thoughts, I've decided to write this.**_

_**This is inspired by another story on here, called "Infection". Yes, the plots will be extremely similar. However, this is my take on the concept, and I don't mean for this to be a rip-off of any kind. If you're interested, you can go check it out, but the stories will be different.**_

_**Anyways, I hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>"<em>Two years have passed since its last reign,<em>

_One that was full of fear and pain,_

_But now it's back, and out for blood,_

_From the one only known as Linkara._

_But how, you wonder, has its strength regained?_

_Didn't he kill himself one day?_

_Yes, he did, but that wasn't the end;_

_A certain Plot Hole had other plans."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter One: A Critic's Downfall<strong>

"I'm the Nostalgia Critic; I remember it, so you don't have to."

The Critic walked a few feet away from the camera, which soon ceased filming.

"…And that's a wrap!" That Other Guy, his camera man, proclaimed. The two of them were in a hotel room because of a convention, finishing up filming the latest review. Other Guy packed up most of his equipment as Critic stretched his back out a little. He began scratching a small itch at the back of his neck as Other Guy asked, "Hey, I was going to head down with a few of the others to the main floor. Care to join?"

"In a minute," Critic replied, rubbing his neck a bit harder. "I just need to change out of this."

"Alright," His brother shrugged. He left the room as the Critic began to take off his tie.

His mind started to drift off to the room he was in. There was a small bed, a red sofa, a mini fridge. The walls were a light green, and the bed sheets were white. By all accounts, it was standard for the price.

Yet... He couldn't help but notice how much it resembled the one from the Plot Hole.

He shivered; how long had it been since he was in there? Trapped in a Purgatory, becoming Donnie, reviewing movies by… what was it, the Nostalgia Cricket? The Critic shook his head.

_That happened over two years ago. Get your head back in the present; you have more pressing matters at hand._

The Critic rubbed the back of his neck even harder than before; that small itch had grown so much that he was pretty sure he was about to break some skin.

_LIKE FIGURING OUT WHERE THE HELL THAT ITCH IS COMING FROM!_

He grunted, taking his hand away from this neck.

Before a startled yelp escaped his lips.

Carefully laced on his fingertips was a collection of white and black static, seemingly trying to bury itself in his skin. The Critic shook his hand twice, trying to make the substance fall off. No luck; it stuck on like glue. He tried to figure out what was happening when he paused, a frightening thought passing in his mind. Within moments, he practically threw off his black blazer and lifted up his white shirt a bit.

When he looked in the mirror, Critic saw his theory was, unfortunately, correct. That static wasn't just on his fingers; it was on his _spine_. Half of his body was covered in…whatever it was. He looked further; it was on his ankles, a bit of his chest…he was starting to look like a painting from Picasso!

_Okay, either your hallucinations are becoming too real, or you need serious medical help. Either way, GET TO A PHONE!_

He was about to reach his cell when he saw it was covered in static, too. Critic mentally face palmed as he saw his tie was covered in the strange substance, with the tip touching his phone. He remembered a house guest phone next to his bed, but he didn't try to go near it; every step he took now left a bit of the alien material.

_Well, great, _now_ what am I supposed to do?_

_Give in, Nostalgia Critic._

Critic was startled at the Voice's sudden appearance. It sounded disjointed, neither male nor female, with an almost robotic tone. It was almost glitch-like.

…Glitch-like…for some reason that reminded him of something…

"Who was that?" He asked aloud. "Other Guy, I swear to _God _if that's you…!"

_Critic, you don't have to talk aloud. _The Voice spoke again. _It makes you sound like a lunatic._

…_Oh, yeah, because I don't want to give anyone THAT idea. No, just arguing with a Voice in my head, that's all. Definitely nothing wrong with that!_

_Good, we're in agreement, then._

The Critic rolled his eyes. _Look, what do you want?_

_Your body._

…_Pardon?_

_I need your body._

…_Well, if you buy me a drink first…_

_NOT LIKE THAT! _The man's hair stood on edge. When it yelled, the Voice sounded even _more_ otherworldly, if that was even possible. _I need your_ IMAGE!

"_My image"?_

_It's the only way I can be able to fully interact with your world; I need a living, breathing vessel. You have the privilege of being that vessel._

The Critic faked a laugh. _You know, this might come as a shock to you, but for SOME REASON, I don't like the idea of some strange voice taking over my body!_

Its shrill laugh was the stuff of nightmares.

_Oh, how quaint! You think you actually have a _choice _in this._

_...What are you talking about? You're in MY body; of course I have a choice in this!_

_Critic, I've been inside your body for two years; always watching, always learning. I know every one of your fears and darkest secrets; I've memorized every nerve in your body, every bone in your spine._

_In the bluntest of terms, I _am _you._

_HOW?! _The NC was getting pissed; how dare this faceless being suddenly appear out of the blue, and have the AUDACITY for such claims?! _NOTHING YOU'VE SAID SO FAR HAS MADE SENSE! NOW CUT YOUR CRYPTIC BULLCRAP AND TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE!_

_SILENCE! _

If a pin had dropped in the following moments, it would have sounded like an atomic bomb.

The Voice sighed in annoyance. _It appears you aren't GETTING this, are you? Fine. Let me explain it in a way that even your microscopic brain beneath your thick skull could understand._

The next thing the Critic felt was an excruciating pain. It felt like a billion tiny hot pokers had pierced his left thigh. He screamed, hopping on one leg. It wasn't a good idea; soon the same pain was in his other thigh. The overwhelming pain caused him to lose his balance, having him collapse hard on the wooden floor.

His legs went numb as the Voice went on. _You know, I would hate for any damage to happen to my new body. Make this easier on yourself, Critic; just give in._

The Critic thought a moment. _You said you entered my body two years ago, right?_

_Correct._

A small pause. _Were you in the Plot Hole?_

It made a sound like it was groaning. _Unfortunately, yes. I was in there_ long_ before you emerged. Once you entered, I simply entered your systems after…what, six months? I'll give you credit, I had to do a lot of things before you finally broke. Creating a purgatory, making you a whole other person; I even got bored one day and made you a Muppet._

_YOU did that?!_

_What? I had to get creative!_

…_Okay then, answer me this: what were you called before you entered the Plot Hole?_

A pause. It made a sound like a cat dying; a chuckle, perhaps? _I was the Voiceless. The Never-Should. The Beautiful Horror. I was Error, Glitch, and all things wonderful, horrible, and everything in between. _The Voice fell silent a moment. The NC figured he was frowning (if it even _could _frown) by the next sentence: _Until _he _came along, that is._

'_He'?_

It stayed silent another moment. …_That isn't important. What is, however, is for my revenge to finally begin._

_Let me guess: you want me to 'give in'?_

Another dying cat sound. _No._

_You don't have that luxury anymore._

Before the Critic knew what was happening, his legs suddenly snapped back to life, though it hurt like like nothing else. But that wasn't all; the static was moving right before his eyes. In mere seconds, his legs were engulfed. Then his arms. When it reached his chest, Critic couldn't breathe, and his heartbeat increased tenfold. Worst of all was on his face: in a mirror, his light blue eyes were beginning to get covered by the being.

The Nostalgia Critic could have done a variety of things in those following moments. He could have screamed like a little girl, running around half-blind in his room. He could have simply given up there and let the disembodied voice taken him over. Instead, he opted for option three:

He ran towards the hotel window, crashing loudly through the glass.

The room he was in was on the tenth floor. It was away from any big buildings, even the tiniest of shacks. It was facing a private access garden, the only person inside a young woman. Next to his window there was a ladder, in case of a fire. That ladder was out for maintenance, and the Critic knew it.

There was another thing he knew at that moment:

_THERE'S NO WAY I'M LETTING YOU TAKE OVER MY BODY!_

Critic could feel the glass shatter under his weight. Millions of glass particles cut various parts of his clothes and body, particularly his face. His right side hit the small square of white platform with a sickening _thunk _as he bounced off, falling face first, towards the concrete below. He could see it now; the collision with the concrete would kill him. Sure, he would leave behind a ton of people; he couldn't even imagine how his family and friends would react; but he would have been doing the right thing.

Because the second he hit that concrete, that Voice would be going down with him.

Within minutes, he felt half of his body break. Bones shattering, his head splitting open; I'll spare you the rest of the grisly sight. But now, the Critic was content. In moments, he'd die, and all would be right with the world.

…That is, if he'd actually _died _on the blazing hot concrete.

The first tip-off he wasn't dying was when he was still fully conscious after ten seconds. With a fall like that, he should have been dead on arrival. The second hint? I'd say when he felt his skull _rebuilding _itself.

"What the…?" Critic spoke aloud; his voice was hoarser then he remembered.

_Like you'd be able to die so easily. _The Voice chimed in; it almost sounded chipper, maybe even mocking. _Let's not forget who's in the majority of your body._

"Oh my God, it _is_ you!" A feminine voice shouted. Critic recognized it immediately as Tamara, a woman he worked with. Through his cracked glasses, he saw her running over to him.

…Where she could come in contact with-

"Stay away!" Critic exclaimed, scrambling away (despite having fallen from nearly ten floors… Oh God, how much control did the Voice _have?_)

Tamara looked flabbergasted. "You just plummeted from your hotel room!" She exclaimed. "We need to get you to a hospital!"

"Trust me, that's the worst thing that can happen!" Critic stood up, and saw why Tamara hadn't stayed away: the static had vanished. Jesus, had it gotten _deeper _in his systems?! "And, hey, I'm fine now!"

"…I'm getting your brother." She told him, stepping forward, briefly considering a straitjacket as well.

"Really, I'm fine!" he insisted, standing in front of her path. Tamara grew frustrated as Critic attempted to get her on his side whilst blocking her way.

"Critic, you need _help!" _Tamara finally exclaimed. "You can't just expect to–!"

The NC suddenly let out an ear-splitting scream. He put his hands over his ears as he collapsed on the ground, curling into a ball. The static; Critic could feel it creeping in his brain. He could feel himself losing his humanity, piece by piece, bit by bit.

_It's been interesting, Critic. _The Voice returned. _All these years, reading your mind, learning your mannerisms. I had a lot to learn, unlike last time. The first person I inhabited was an utter twat. But now, nearly having full control your body, I feel a little more…whole._

The Critic's eyes, previously shut, had snapped open.

"I remember." He'd nearly mumbled.

Tamara, who had only stared dumbly at him the whole time, raised her eyebrow. "'Remember'?"

"I remember who you are." The Critic continued, getting up and ignoring Tamara. "The beastly voice, the black and white static; it's all coming back." It was then he scowled, getting angrier. "You're the Entity, aren't you?! You're messing with my mind, just like you had done with everyone else! I remember who you are!"

He then unexpectedly smiled, almost maniacally.

"More importantly, though, I remember how to destroy you."

"…Critic," Tamara backed up a little. "Are you in the middle of one of your 'episodes'?"

He turned his head towards her; the Critic's eyes were wild. "Hey, you're still here!"

"…Yeah?" She began reaching to her pocket; there was a can of pepper spray inside, unopened.

"O-o-o-oh, you're _screwed_ now, Entity!" The Critic looked absolutely giddy. He once more turned to Tamara, who was close to ripping off the plastic wrap of that spray. "Tamara, I need you to call–!"

A sharp pain in his head caused him to yelp. _O-h, _he thought, _trying to take over my mind still, are ya?_

"Not…today…!" the Critic exclaimed, his teeth gritted together. He let out an exasperated breath, turning back to his frightened co-worker. "Tamara, call–!"

Another cry of pain; the intensifying pain in his right frontal lobe was killing him. _Give in, _it repeatedly said.

"Call–!"

_Give in._

He pointed to his forehead. "Shut it!" He returned to Tamara. "Call–!"

In the next moment, though, his eyes widened. Something had broken in the Critic's mind. He didn't know what, or how, or why. But now…everything seemed…

Worthless.

Totally and completely…worthless.

"Call..."

_Why continue to fight? _The Entity interrupted. _Your world is so imperfect; wars, injustice, manslaughter. Who in their right mind would want to keep _that_? Become one with me, Critic, and together, we can perfect this desolate planet. Just do as I have said this whole time: give in._

"C-call…" He sunk to his knees. This world _was _horrible. Why… Why _did _he continue to fight?

_Give in._

His face was heading towards the hot brink pathway. "Y-you need to…get…" Now his voice was getting weaker, with the Entity's thoughts getting stronger.

"Who?" said Tamara; she was getting hazy, Critic realized.

"L…Lin…" His eyes were closing. In mere moments, they were shut, inky blackness surrounding him.

"Critic…?"

No response.

"Critic."

Still no answer.

"CRITIC!"

Tamara panicked; the Critic was just an unconscious heap in front of her. She needed to get help. Other Guy… Malcolm… _anyone_!

Before she could start shouting like a madwoman, a voice made her stop in her tracks: "Tamara."

She turned around and discovered the Critic, getting off the ground. No, she wasn't imagining things; he cracked his neck as he stood up, wiping loose dirt off his blazer. He continued, without missing a beat: "Is everything alright?"

She glowered. "'Alright'?" She repeated, her cheeks flushed in rage. "'Alright'?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

The Critic smiled. It set off an alarm bell in her head; the smile wasn't the snarky or malicious smile she was used to. It was…sincere. Warm. Inviting, even.

Something was _very_ wrong.

"I know." He told her. "And I'm sorry about that."

"…Are you okay, Critic?" Tamara was holding the pepper spray tightly in her pocket.

"Perfectly fine," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry about my near-suicide scare; the movie I just watched was the worst I'd ever seen. It made me believe I was hearing a Voice in my head and that today had mighty-fine jumping weather. How about this: you'll get Other Guy, Malcolm, and whoever else you want, and we'll all get a coffee or something. My treat."

The woman eyed him suspiciously. "Okay…" she replied, taking his hand off her shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright, Critic?"

"Positive." The Nostalgia Critic reassured, putting his hands behind his back. "Never better, in fact."

Tamara kept a watchful eye as she carefully walked away from the Critic. He had decided to sit on a stone bench, near where some of his blood was drying. As she walked through the hotel lobby, packed with people, a detail crept through her mind: The Critic's eyes were blue. A light blue, at that.

So why did they look vaguely static-like a few moments ago?


	2. The Virus Spreads

"_Now that Critic has slipped away,_

_The other reviewers must be contained!_

_With the Beast's lust to have any and all power,_

_Let's go watch some of their final hours."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Two: The Virus Spreads<strong>

Angry Joe heavily panted as he fell to the ground.

The Puerto-Rican was bewildered. One minute, he was playing a crappy game with Other Joe on his Xbox; nothing too odd about that. The next, a knock on his door rang through the house. He answered it to find one of the Critic's workers – Tamara, was it? He let her in, and she headed toward the living room. Joe had wanted a drink; Tamara and the Other Joe didn't want anything; so he went to the kitchen. He went back to the living room, drink in hand, when Other Joe stopped him.

Joe nearly had a heart attack. The Other Joe was a wreck; his t-shirt was torn, his right hand was busted up, and he was panting.

But that wasn't what scared Joe.

That was the static.

It was all over Other Joe, even leaving a mark where he leaned on the wall. It was alive, crawling over his skin, looking like it needed to burrow inside.

He only said one thing before being taken over:

"Run."

The glass he held shattered on the floor as Joe bolted.

Which was where he was now; Tamara (also covered in static) and Other Joe were searching in the park near his house. Everything they touched left a mark, which took over soon after. Tons of trees and bushes were covered by the stuff when Joe remembered something: he had a space ship.

He owned a space ship, had the teleporter in his hand, _and he had run out the house._

Joe mentally slapped his forehead as he punched in the coordinates.

In the next minute, he had gotten on his ship. Angry Joe bolted towards the transmission room; Other Joe might catch on to what was going on. Once he got inside, he made a beeline to the computer. He clicked on his email, and put the name of everyone he knew inside (expect for Other Joe and the Nostalgia Critic, for obvious reasons). He quickly typed in the following message:

_It's back. The Entity has returned._

_It's taken over my house; I have no idea what will happen. Regardless, do not attempt to contact me. If I do become...controlled, I don't want any of you to get into danger. Just assume the worst._

_STAY AWAY FROM STATIC._

_-Joe_

His hand hovered over the 'Send' option as a chilling voice cut into his rapidly passing thoughts: "Are you sure you want to send that?"

To his dismay, Joe turned to see the Critic, Other Joe, and Tamara in the entrance. Critic was the one who spoke; his voice wasn't human anymore. Not even remotely. It was… Hell, he didn't even know how to describe it. Definitely not human, though.

"Joe, think about this," He – _It – _continued, stepping forward. "You would put your loved ones in even more danger then they're in already." It paused before a brief chuckle. "That is, if they even _heed _your warning."

"If it helps," The Other Joe chimed in; its voice was the same as the Critic's, "becoming a part of the collective isn't painful. At most, it'll feel like a bee sting."

"Join us, Joe." Tamara continued, sounding like her two predecessors. "Experience pure perfection for yourself."

Joe paced his breathing, which had been coming out in flurries. He could feel his grey pistol in his pocket, as he always carried it around. The offer did slightly temp him, though. He remembered how the Entity almost took over the world quite easily. He'd be heading on the winning team, and it'd probably have more benefits.

But that's the thing: It _almost _took over.

And it only took one person to stop it.

Angry Joe stood up, taking the gun from his pocket. He tapped the 'Send' button, hearing the familiar _ding _sound as the email was sent out. He didn't begin to fire the gun on the others, though. Joe knew that his friends were still fully alive in there, and by shooting them, he'd kill only _them._ The Entity would just hop to the nearest living body: his.

Fortunately, Joe knew how to truly stop the Entity's reach.

He turned the gun on himself, shooting a bullet straight through his brain.

* * *

><p><em>STAY AWAY FROM STATIC.<em>

Oancitizen read Joe's final words over a few times. It glowed on his computer, the only light in his dark room.

He remembered the Entity well. Being under its influence doesn't stray easily from one's mind. It was something different, being in the Entity's realm. At first, it was just static. The sudden shock of being taken over was terrifying, causing him to panic. But, after the initial fear passed, Oancitizen realized what it was like inside:

Boring.

It was really, really…_boring._

There was nothing to do. Oan was just trapped in a limbo (of sorts…he never knew how it actually worked), his thoughts keeping him company. It was in there he thought of many things. He yearned for little more than a board game or a deck of cards, just for amusement. He wondered if this'll be what the rest of eternity would be like: just vacantly staring at the equivalent of TV static. He pondered movie's true meanings. He thought about ancient stories and myths to pass the time. He sang old songs he remembered. At one point, he'd gone insane and just kept screaming "walnuts" for a while. Why _did _he only scream of walnuts, anyway? Why not almonds? Or cashews? Peanuts? Acorns?

Whatever the reason, it went on like this for a while. He didn't know how long, really; he'd just known he was taken on a Monday. Then, with no warning, Oan was out of the Entity (once more on a Monday). He would learn later about the Entity's "death" (if Joe was to be believed, it didn't last long), but originally thought he was still _in _the realm. His home was just a new delusion he'd conjured up. It took until someone found him, staring blankly at the wall, that he came to the realization he was free.

...You know, looking blankly at the words, he couldn't help but think of the movie _Blue_. It was simply the color blue, alongside narration. No variation. No motion at all, unless you count the credits. Just…blue. One lone frame, for an hour and fourteen minutes. The narrator, just alone with his thoughts, rambling on in hopes someone was listening. How hadn't come across his mind before?

Well… He supposed he was making up for it now.

The Entity was nearly finished reabsorbing his body.

Soon, he'd be back in its domain. Soon, he'd be left alone with his thoughts once more. Who knows, maybe he'd slip back into insanity again, and would scream other nut types.

Yet… He never tried to fight it.

Oancitizen was all-too comfortable as the last of the static covered his eyes.

* * *

><p><em>Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap…<em>

The above was the summarization of Paw's thoughts (well... let's be nice and say "crap" was the word he was thinking).

The movie-musical critic had received the email as well. There was something in there, contained in Joe's message: "Just assume the worst", was it?

Well, he couldn't.

So, of course, Paw just _had _to get on the next fight to Dallas. Joe's house was a wreck; everywhere, furniture was broken, the curtains were torn, and tons of static all around. He wasn't as thick as to touch the stuff; he was also around during the Entity's initial appearance. However, he managed to find an untouched portal controller near the door, and used it to get into Joe's ship.

And nearly was drenched in static.

He managed to grab onto a non-infected pole just before it could have gotten onto his shoe, but it was terrifying. Static, crawling around like little bugs, was all over the metallic floor. He would have left then and there if he hadn't heard this:

"...surprised how fast he pulled the trigger, though."

Paw paused; he knew that voice. It – vaguely, mind you – sounded like Other Joe.

There came another voice, this one feminine. "I was, too. I'm a bit disappointed; we could have used him for so much."

"Yeah." A pause before he slightly laughed. "Did you see the look on Critic's face?"

Another laugh. "How couldn't I? He easily wiped Joe's blood from his cheek, but only after a look of sickening terror vanished!"

Paw grew a bit pale. 'Joe's blood'? 'Pulled the trigger'? They talked like he…

He…

Paw couldn't even think about it.

But then there was that thing they said about Critic: 'a look of sickening terror vanished' in reaction to J– to an event. The sickening terror, Paw could understand. But…why did it vanish?

Unless…

Oh no…

"…Critic? Is that you down there?"

Paw panicked for a split second. The two inhuman voices must've seen him out of the corner of their eyes. He struggled to grab the controller as he heard their footsteps echo across the metallic floorboards. Paw managed to get the bulky teleporter into his free hand as he tapped in an address. He was being sent to his destination by the time the two got inside, only seeing a glimpse of the movie-musical reviewer.

"Ah!" he yelped, dropping down onto a couch. It took a moment before Paw sighed in relief. He was on his couch, back in his home.

He was getting up, with his thoughts matching those at the beginning, when another person popped her head in the room: The Maven of the Eventide, Paw's wife.

"Paw!" she exclaimed, jolted by her husband's sudden appearance. "What are you doing back so soon?"

"I'll explain later," he replied, checking in one of the bedrooms. It was empty. "Where's Oan?"

"Oan? He left shortly after you did. Something about visiting the Nostalgia Chick..."

Paw raced to the front door. The Maven saw he locked it with the bolt chain. "Paw, what's going on?"

He didn't reply. Paw just headed towards another bedroom, quietly opening the door when he arrived. It was dark inside. He only saw the shadowy outline of a baby crib. Inside, there was the faint outline of an infant, sleeping soundly as his chest slowly went up and down. Paw faintly smiled, relief hitting him like an ocean wave.

After shutting the door softly, he turned to find his wife. Her arms crossed and she gave him an _"I'm waiting"_ glare. Paw's gaze went to the floor as the two went to the living room. There, he told her everything: the email (she hadn't checked her inbox all day), the ship, the conversation he'd overheard. Needless to say, she was shocked after hearing the tale. A silence went over the house.

"So… What are we going to do now?" The Maven inquired.

"We wait it out," Paw guessed. "We need to stay here, for our own safety. No one can come in or out."

"Not even one of our neighbors, or other reviewers?"

"Even our neighbors, and _especially _the others. They just… They can't be trusted anymore, not with the Entity's return."

There was another silence between the two. This silence lasted throughout the late evening. When they were checking out windows, solemnly eating dinner, even before they headed to bed, the quiet stayed. It was only under the covers, while Paw was half conscious, that the Maven finally broke it:

"I'm scared, Paw."

He opened an eye, turning towards her as he softly answered: "I am, too. But we need to hold up; if we get afraid, it'll be exactly what the Entity wants."

She shifted nervously, getting closer to Paw. She placed an arm across his chest as the two laid in silence. Again, the Maven ended it: "Paw? Can you do me a favor?"

"Yes," he faintly replied, suddenly feeling incredibly sleepy. "What is it?"

The last thing he heard was a glitch-like voice:

_"Give in to the static."_

* * *

><p>Days turned into weeks as the Entity's reach spread, far and wide. Soon, every reviewer with even past associations with Channel Awesome became under its control. Any time someone clicked on one of their videos, or came in contact with them, the virus spread to them as well. After that, they would soon become victim to the Beast.<p>

That is, with one notable exception.

One such day in its conquest, the Critic sat in a leather chair, coated in black and white static. At first, you could hardly tell any differences with the infected and regular Critic. Now, though, his eyes were only black and white, with his speech cold and calculating, similar to a computer's. He was forced to wear contacts and mostly stay silent, getting through his last few videos with the excuse of a bizarre throat infection. No one seemed to question it, so he was doing fine.

Only… _He_ wasn't.

He might have his body, but the Critic never left his brain. How could he? The disease couldn't affect a _dead_ body. As a consequence, he was forced to put up with the Critic's voice 24/7, and had to occasionally fight him off when he attempted to regain control. The Entity became greatly annoyed; his first host, as moronic as he was, was more docile and easily contained. The Nostalgia Critic, however, was (slightly) smarter than the other, and had more of a fighting spirit.

On this one such day, another drone of the collective, Malcolm, came in with the report of the day's progress. When he was done, the Critic shooed him away to be alone with his thoughts. After Malcolm left, though, the Entity's unfortunate second voice began his random nagging of the day.

_Why are you infecting the others first?_

The Entity gave a look of annoyance as the Critic continued. _We both know who you're actually after; half the time you rant about him in your head, and the other half you fantasize about killing him. But here you are, leaving your greatest threat alone while you go around eating all his friends! Care to explain?_

_It's so he won't have anyone to run to. _It coolly replied. _Once the others are gone, the Champion will be completely isolated._

_Yes, yes, I know that. But, here's an idea, why not eat the people he's closest to?_

_I don't EAT them, you dolt! I simply inhabit their bodies, absorbing their essence until they become a part of my perfection!_

…_Yeah, still sounds a hell of a lot like eating someone._

_To answer your question,_ the Entity practically snarled, _it would be too obvious. That would be the first thing that the Champion would expect. Therefore, we need to stay away from them._

_So you're doing the second thing he'd expect you to do! I applaud you, Entity. Clearly, your tactical brilliance rivals the greatest of generals! Oh, wait, I can't applaud you. Probably because YOU TOOK OVER MY BODY!_

_QUIET! _If it was possible to scream in your head, that's what it did. The Critic bit his nonexistent tongue as it continued. _It won't matter, anyway. Almost all of the reviewers are gone._

_Soon, Linkara will be nothing but a fleeting, unpleasant memory._


	3. Escape from the Apartment

_**A/N: Sorry, I meant to post yesterday, but I didn't have enough time. On the plus side, you get two chapters today: one from yesterday and the other for today.**_

* * *

><p>"<em>The others are gone, and that's all good,<em>

_But that's not what we've been looking forward to._

_The trap is set, there's no escape,_

_Let's see if Linkara can still get away."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Three: Escape from the Apartment<strong>

_**Six days later…**_

"Is it time?"

"Yes. The time is upon us. Seal away any possible exits; don't allow any room for error. I've been itching to kill him for a rather long time."

* * *

><p>Linkara rubbed his temples.<p>

The comic reviewer was frazzled. Ever since he received the email from Joe, everything seemed to be falling apart. Joe hadn't replied to any means of contact he'd attempted; he didn't send any tweets or the like in a while; but, most importantly, _no one seemed to notice._ The others acted like Angry Joe never existed, and even the most die-hard fans of his have fallen silent.

Then there was still the matter of the email itself.

It was true.

After several scans, a similar strand of DNA patterns to the Entity's appeared in various countries around the globe, though mostly in the States. The worst part? It was growing. Every time he rescanned the globe, more spots showed the signs of the infection. Even very isolated locations were beginning to show signs of the strand! He'd tried to warn others on various social media sites, but no one's taking him seriously. Well… he supposed he brought that on himself. It is rather close to Halloween, after all, and the recent ending to the King of Worms' arch wasn't helping matters.

Nowhere seems safe anymore. He would've left for Comicron-1 the moment the strand was revealed if Nimue hadn't calmed his worries, stating the apartment complex was completely safe. Still, Linkara had been sitting on his green futon for God knows how long, trying to figure out how the Entity could have resurfaced.

Or, even more important, why hadn't come for him yet.

He was lost in his thoughts as he dimly heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said, still too focused on his computer screen.

"DUUUUUUUUUUUDE!" 90's Kid greeted, entering the room. "How's it been GO-ING?"

"Where the hell have you been for the last few months?" Linkara asked, who hadn't seen him since he reviewed _US-1 #4_.

"I've been in my place, going through my Rob Liefeld collection!" 90's Kid replied. "So what have I missed over here?"

"Quite a lot, actually," Linkara told him, having gotten up and searching through his comic shelf for the billionth time that day. "But we can talk about that later. Say, have you seen the Silent Hill book lying around?"

"Sorry, broseph, I haven't. Why you ask?"

"I need it for something involving the Entity."

"T-the what?" 90's Kid had gotten considerably paler.

"You remember, the En-." He began, before remembering what had happened. "Oh… 90's Kid, I completely…"

"It- It's fine, dude." He reassured, though still looked a bit uneasy. "What happened?"

Though a bit hesitant, Linkara told 90's Kid the story, including Joe's email.

"Can I read it?" 90's Kid asked, as Linkara mentioned it was still opened on his laptop. He was about to reply when Nimue interrupted on the intercom: _"Alert: Someone is requesting to enter the building."_

"Who is it?"

"_Scanning… Recognized as the Nostalgia Critic."_

"Critic?" Linkara was a bit surprised; what was he doing here all the way from Chicago? "Uh… Sure, send him up." As Nimue went off, he turned back to 90's Kid. "You can read the email, but don't touch anything else!"

Linkara left 90's Kid (who was saying something like, "Whoa, Joe sent this to a _lot_ of people!") as he came to his living room. He was straightening one of his Pokeballs when he heard a frantic scrambling from one of the rooms over; 90's Kid.

"Dude!" He shouted. "You can't let-!"

He was cut short when a low _thump _was heard.

Linkara turned to see 90's Kid on the ground, having collided with something.

"Whoa! 90's Kid, are you-?"

He stopped, though, once he realized what 90's Kid had hit; it was a force field, right over the entrance to the hallway.

"What the…? Nimue, what's a force field doing here?"

"_This unit has activated Procedure 95671, as per command." _Nimue explained. He remembered what it was: in case if attacking forces had gotten inside the apartment, Linkara programmed a protocol where a force field could be put down over all possible entrances, excluding the main one.

…The thing that confused him was the fact that _he,_ and only he, could activate that particular protocol.

"Linkara, you can't let the Critic in!" 90's Kid explained as Linkara was trying to figure out what had happened; the gun-loving doofus had gotten up, and his voice was rather frantic. "The e-mail! It was sent to everyone except-!"

"Kid, what's going on?" Harvey Finevoice interrupted; he had transported into the living room through Comicron-1.

"Procedure 95671 was activated," Linkara said, tapping something into his white watch. "Something must have malfunctioned in Nimue's systems; I'm trying to shut it down."

"Really? Seems rather unlikely, doesn't it?" Harvey asked.

"Look for yourself." Linkara held out his watch. Harvey seemed like he was going to pull Linkara's arm closer to get a better look when 90's Kid suddenly cried out, "DON'T LET HIM TOUCH YOU! HE'S INFECTED!"

"What? 90's Kid, what the hell are you talking about?" Linkara, putting his arm down, asked.

"The Entity! He infected everyone! Harvey, Pollo, Linksano, Nimue, even Jaeris!" 90's Kid exclaimed. "The Critic's the leader; he's coming up to get you infected, too!"

"90's Kid, don't be ridiculous!" Linkara said. "The complex is completely safe!"

"It's not! You need to get out of here!"

"Look, 90's Moron," Harvey chimed in, "I don't know what's going on in that pea-sized brain of yours, but-."

"Whatever you're about to say is a lie! Linkara, you've got to believe me!"

"Everything's _fine!" _Linkara told him, trying to calm his worries. "Nimue just malfunctioned; where would you even get-?"

He was stopped by his own yelp.

90's Kid had taken off his sunglasses to reveal his eyes were nothing but static. They were overflowing with the stuff; it had gone to a point where it was beginning to leak from his eyes, filling the lower part of his tear duct with the black and white squiggles. However, there was something else in there: it was very faint, but a circle of light brown was definitely in there.

It was the only thing keeping him from becoming the Entity once more.

Realizing his cover was blown, Harvey attempted to ram into the comic reviewer. Luckily, Linkara recovered from his shock just in time to swerve out of the way, causing Harvey to run headfirst into a shelf. When he was getting up, one of his eye contacts fell out. When he looked up, Linkara saw the eye was nothing but a whirlpool of static. Harvey scowled as he attempted to charge once more, every step he took now leaving black and white in the carpet.

However, Linkara was one step ahead of him. Pulling out the Magic Gun, he shot one of the force field emitters. It was enough to take down the force field for a moment or two, which Linkara used to get out of the living room. When Harvey, tried to follow, though, he was simply deflected against the reactivated shield as Linkara bolted towards the window.

Once reaching it, Linkara attempted to open the window, but to no avail; the thing was wired shut by protocol.

"Override 25679!" He shouted, praying it would work.

Thankfully, it did. The override managed to get the window to open, allowing Linkara to get out. He was closing the window once again on top of a fire escape just as he heard the _rat-tat-tat _of a Tommy gun. Practically sliding down the ladder, the comic reviewer threw off his communicator (which could have doubled as a tracking device) as he bolted towards the surrounding forest area.

* * *

><p>The first thing the Critic heard as he entered the room was Harvey attacking 90's Kid.<p>

"YOU TRAITOROUS SLIME!" He screeched, pinning 90's Kid against a wall. "I OUGHTA CHOKE THE LIFE OUT OF YA!"

His hands grew tighter around 90's Kid neck when Critic ordered, "Put him down."

Harvey turned to face his leader. "What?! But he-!"

"Put. Him. _Down._" The Critic didn't even raise his voice, but his tone was enough to get Harvey to drop him.

90's Kid was gasping for air when Dr. Linksano teleported down. He still wore his goggles, but underneath them the static had turned into swirls.

"Well?" He asked.

"He got away," Critic sourly reported, heading towards a window.

"Yeah, no thanks to _him._" Harvey mumbled, glaring at 90's Kid.

90's Kid was attempting to stand up again as Critic comment. "We don't need to play the blame-game, Finevoice. What's important is that Linkara is not dead yet."

_Just like I said, _the original Critic chimed in. The guy was almost too cheerful for the situation. _If you couldn't kill him the first time, why try again?_

_Because I didn't know what he was capable of back then, _the Entity replied. _Because I was foolish back then. He cannot beat me the same way twice; I have experienced life, death, perfection, and weakness. There's no way he can beat me_ this_ time._

"So, what do we do _now_?" Harvey asked, folding his arms. The Critic saw a trail of footprints heading towards the woods area. He gained a malicious smirk.

"Simple," the Critic said, turning towards the lounge singer. "We start hunting."


	4. Cold-Blooded

"_Two weeks have passed since its escape,_

_And already it's begun its reign._

_A couple drives, alone, on an icy road;_

_It might prove to be their final mistake."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Four: Cold-Blooded<strong>

_**Two Weeks Later…**_

"_Good evening, and welcome to Lori Prince Live. Our top story tonight is the latest epidemic that seems to be sweeping the nation. Though there have been signs that this is affecting multiple continents, it seems to be mostly concentrated in the U.S. The CDC has tried to pinpoint any specific symptoms you need to watch out for, but no results have been released. We will now be taking any callers, interested in putting their-."_

The man driving changed the station before Lori could finish. It was an indistinct pop song that his fiancé seemed to enjoy, so he left it on.

It was late at night. They were driving home from visiting his aunt, whom had recently been hospitalized. An unprecedented early snow storm had left the road mostly bare, the last car they passed having been nearly three miles ago. The woman beside him was humming along to the tune when she noticed someone on the road.

"Hey, isn't that a hitchhiker?" She asked, pointing him out.

The man look; indeed, it seemed that someone was trying to catch a ride. It was faint from where they were, but he clearly saw a dot of brown forming the shape of a human.

"Yeah," he replied; he pushed her arm down. "Don't point; they might think we're picking them up."

She put her arm back up, about to wave at the hitchhiker; the man could now make out it was a he.

"Delilah, we're not picking him up." The man told her, pushing her arm down once more.

"What? But he can't stay out here! He'll freeze to death!" Delilah protested.

"He could be a serial killer, or a madman!" The man pointed out. "You'll forget about him in a few minutes, anyway."

"I won't! I know I won't!" She looked at the thermometer. "It's almost ten degrees, and you know how cold it gets out here at night!"

Still, he hesitated. The hitchhiker wasn't too far away now; he didn't look like a psychopath, or a bloodthirsty killer. He just looked cold. His hand, most likely numb by now, looked faintly blue, and a recent wind gust couldn't have helped. Eventually, he sighed.

"Fine. But I better not regret this."

* * *

><p>Linkara almost shouted in joy when a car stopped, pulling towards the side of the road.<p>

He'd been on the run ever since the Entity had revealed itself. Everywhere he looked, he swore he saw flashes of static, or heard the word "Human" faintly. He probably hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in the last few nights, just from overwhelming paranoia.

The car that pulled to the side pulled down one of the windows to reveal a young couple. The man looked bookish and tired; it probably wasn't his idea to pull over. The woman, however, was a little more inviting, showing a kind smile.

"Need a lift?" She asked.

"Yes, thank you." Linkara replied, opening the door to the back.

"Where you heading?" The man, sounding disinterested, inquired.

"The nearest town from here," Linkara told him, settling down in the backseat.

The man simply half nodded, pulling back onto the road. The woman, though, was a bit chattier: "So, what's your name?"

"Lewis," Linkara lied; the man seemed like he would easily throw him out with no particular reasoning, so saying his actual name might land him back on the freezing highway.

"Nice to meet you, Lewis. I'm Delilah, and that's my fiancé, Harold." Harold didn't even attempt to hold a hand up in greeting. "We were just getting back from…from…" She snapped her fingers a few times, trying to remember.

"My aunt," He reminded her.

"Oh, yeah, Aunt Lucy!"

"Phyllis."

"Phyllis, right, Phyllis!" She chuckled. "Names just slip my mind occasionally."

"That's not all that does…" Harold murmured, looking out one of the windows.

Delilah, meanwhile, was too interested in their new guest to hear him. "What do you do for a living?"

_Oh, I review comic books while battling world conquerors. In fact, a previously dead advisory of mine has resurrected himself and is currently trying to take over the world! _"I write stories."

"That's cool," Delilah said. A song came on the radio, with some country twang to it. "Ooh, I love this song!"

She swayed her head to the beat as the car fell silent. Towards the end of the cheesy pop single, Harold casually questioned, "So, what were you doing in the middle of nowhere?"

"My car broke down. I was heading towards the nearest mechanic." Linkara answered, already picking a million holes in his story.

"Really? 'Cause I don't remember seeing a car when we were traveling down." He pointed out; ah, one of the more obvious ones.

"…Well, I-." Linkara began, already struggling with an excuse, when Delilah interrupted: "Hey, who's that?"

The two men turned to where she was pointing at. To Harold, he only saw a man wearing some black blazer and blue jean combo, heading out of the woods.

But to Linkara, he saw a Death sentence.

"Speed up."

"What?" Harold asked, turning his gaze to the hitchhiker; his eyes had widen, looking slightly afraid. "Don't you know how dangerous that is on a night like this?"

"Well, it'll be even more dangerous if we run into him, so _speed up!" _

"Why, do you two know each other or something?"

"Yes! Now SPEED UP!"

"Why?! Why should I-?!"

"HAROLD!" Delilah screeched. His head swung around to see the man from before, not five feet from the headlights, in the middle of the road. The two men also screamed, with Harold veering sharply right as the ice on the road caused the vehicle to slip down the surrounding forest.

Within moments, they had collided head-on into a tree.

* * *

><p>Linkara shot awake as he sat up.<p>

The scene in the car was awful. He wasn't conscious to see it, but the oak tree they had collided into had shattered the windshield into a million pieces. A hole roughly the size of his head was straight in the middle, which probably explained why the three patrons had begun to bleed from cuts. If that wasn't enough, one of Linkara's glasses' lenses had been shattered, making everything look like it was in a kaleidoscope.

"H-Harold?" Delilah croaked, her eyes beginning to open. Linkara checked his pulse; it was faint, but his heart was still beating.

"He's alive," he told her, before turning to her. "Are you okay, Delilah?"

She stared at him blankly before attempting to back up in her seat. "Who are you?" Delilah asked. "How do you know my name? If you're trying to steal something, just take it!"

"What?" Linkara began. "We were talking just-!"

"Yeah, it slipped down here!" A voice called out. Linkara recognized it immediately as Harvey's.

"Get down!" He rasped, ducking down to the back seat feet area. Still, he seemed to fall on deaf ears to her, as Delilah saw help in the strange men coming down.

As Delilah tried to figure out their appearances, Linkara found a ratty, woolen blanket on the floor. Seeing no other choice, he threw the blanket over himself, laying still as his paced his breathing, praying he wouldn't be discovered.

He could still hear perfectly fine, though, as Delilah spoke not too long after he hid: "Oh, thank God you're here! Please, we desperately need some-!"

She cut short by her own scream, as Linkara heard her being yanked from her seat from someone outside the window. It took him as his might in order not to flinch when a loud _thump _rang out on the car.

"Where's Linkara?!" It demanded; again, Linkara could pick out Harvey's voice, even in its beastly speech.

"What? Who are you-?" Delilah tried to begin, only to be cut off by the lounge singer. "Don't play dumb with me! Tell me where he is!"

"Control your temper, Finevoice." Another voice ordered him; the Critic. Even now, with his voice nearly rivaling a computer's in monotone, the man sounded cool as a cucumber. "Put the poor woman down."

Linkara heard Harvey slightly growl as there was a distinct collision of feet and light snow. Delilah was practically hyperventilating. "Hey, settle down, settle down. My colleague might have been a bit...uncivil in his greeting, but I can assure you we're completely safe."

Her breath was beginning to slow down as a third person opened the driver's seat door, taking out Harold's body.

"Here's another one," it said; Linkara saddened to remember it as 90's Kid. He had given in, too?

"Alright," the Critic said, talking to Delilah. "We've been looking for someone named Linkara. I happened to see him in your car. Do you remember which way he went when he left?"

"I-I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about." She apologized, still nervous from Harvey's "greeting".

The Critic sighed; whether in disappointment or frustration is anyone's guessed. "What's your name?"

"D-Delilah."

"Okay, Delilah, I need you to relax."

"Relax? Why would I…?"

She didn't finish. In those moments, she had begun to relax a bit, and Linkara could imagine that static was seeping into her systems. Her guard must have dropped lower and lower as the static poured in her very being.

A minute or so passed. Linkara could imagine Critic letting go of her arms or shoulders before stating, "She doesn't know anything."

"What?!" Harvey shouted. The Critic must have shot him a look as he said, his voice lowered, "How doesn't she know anything?"

"She suffers from short-term memory loss." A fourth voice came into the mix; Harold's, no doubt. "Has been ever since she was little. Even if she saw where Linkara went, she'd probably forget by now."

"What about you?" 90's Kid asked.

"Well, I _was_ knocked out when we hit the tree, so I can't say much, either."

Silence. Linkara could hear the crunch of the Critic's footsteps as he traveled behind the car. Once he reached the back, he said, "The nearest town is a few miles from here. If there's any chance of finding him, it'll be there."

The others must have nodded, as five footsteps trudged through the night until they grew too faint to hear.

He didn't know how much time had passed; maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours; but Linkara eventually got up. He got out of the car, now half covered in static, and proceeded to scramble away in the other direction.


	5. Urban Legends

"_More time passes,_

_The situation grows oh-so-drastic,_

_Because no matter how much our champion may resist the urge,_

_Another poor bloke will succumb to the Entity's purge."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Five: Urban Legends<strong>

_**One Month Later…**_

The sound of laughter fills the air as four college sophomores sit around a camp fire, which glows red and orange flames.

"…And remember when Hannah had that party a few months ago? That place was _trashed _when we were done with it!" One of the boys said, causing the others to start laughing again.

"Stop, my gut is about to burst!" One of the girls, still chuckling, pleaded.

"Speaking of guts bursting…" Another one of the boys, a dirty blonde, began, rubbing his hands together. "Anyone got any good ghost stories?"

A female brunette groaned. "Rod, I've been hearing nothing _but _ghost stories for the past few months. Couldn't we tell something else?"

"Alright then," Rod said. "How about a legend? Something like..." He stood up, clicked on a flashlight, and said in a horribly fake European accent, "THE TALE OF THE FEDORA SPECTER!"

Interested, the three others gathered around as Rod began (still in that phony accent), "It was three weeks ago, on a night similar to this. A family was taking a vacation in the mountains. Then, in the dead of night, the daughter screamed at the top of her lungs. Her mother came in, asking what had happened."

"'A ghost!' she cried. 'There's a ghost outside!'"

"The mother chuckled in relief; for a moment, she thought there was a huge beast outside. 'Relax, sweetheart,' she comforted. 'You're just seeing things.'"

"After managing to soothe the child back to sleep, the mother returned to the lounge, where her husband sat, reading a newspaper. She explained what had happened, and the father laughed."

"'Quite the dreamer we got!' He commented, to which she agreed."

"But, by the next night, another scream rang through the house. This time, it was from their son, who was two years older than his sibling."

"'Is everything alright?' Their father asked."

"'O-Outside! There's something there!' He was cowering behind an oak desk. The father peaked outside the window."

"'Nothing's been out there all night,' he reported. The son came from behind his hiding spot, to discover the same thing his father had."

"'What?' He was aghast. 'I… I swear to God, someone was out there! Dad, you have to believe me! It was holding something in his hand…he was wearing a hat!"

"Still, the father waved him off. By the next morning, the two children were out and about, trying to prove that their 'imagination' was real. But the search had gone nowhere, and the two were left without a definite answer to what they had seen. That night, the mother and father were going to bed when the mother brought up the specter again."

"'Dear,' he said, 'there's nothing in the mountains. The kids are just getting to you.'"

"'Still… What if…' she started."

"'Look, there's only snow for miles around!' He threw open the curtains in proof."

"Only to end up screeching."

"There, not ten feet from his window, was a man in a long brown overcoat. He donned a brown fedora, and from the light reflections one of his glasses lenses had been popped out. He had been holding something, though dropped it in a panic when the husband spotted him. The strange man had begun running away when the father hastily put on slippers and a blue bathrobe. When he ran outside, he went out a bit, attempting to call out to the stranger. But he was too late, as the fedora-wearing man had vanished into the night. When the husband reached the bag, his wife not too far behind, he discovered it was filled with food, which had been stolen from their pantry. Though, there was still the matter of why the man had run, clearly needing help...especially right in the middle of a bitter snow storm."

"They notified the police as soon as they could, and everything was quiet throughout the next two days."

"That is, until two skiers found the wife unconscious, four miles from her cabin."

"When the two brought her in, she frantically described what had happened. Her husband was keeping a watch out for the stranger when someone knocked on the door. He answered and discovered three men, asking if he had seen the fedora-man. He replied yes and gestured them in, closing and locking the door."

"The next thing she clearly remembered was chaos. One of the three attacked the father, while she herded her children to the daughter's room. It hardly did much good, as another one, a suited man, punched through the wooden door. She opened the window for an escape route, but both the son and the daughter were gone by the time she had opened it. The suited man lunged, attempting to grab her, but she jumped out the window. She had run as fast as she could until feeling faint, collapsing in the snow."

"The last thing she remembered was seeing the fedora-wearing man, simply watching the barbaric scene."

"Since then, there have been multiple accounts of the stranger across the Mid-West. Some say he's a man, down on his luck; others say he's an angel of death, sent from Hell itself for vengeance on humanity. But one thing's always certain about him, even more certain than the trio of men following his every move."

"Where ever he goes, Death will soon follow."

Rod paused at the end, looking around. "Hey," he asked, in normal voice, "where's Matt?"

The two girls, still slightly on edge from the story, saw their friend nowhere to be found.

"Matt!" The redheaded girl shouted, as the three began searching for the missing camper. It was a few minutes before the brunette pushed away some green, berry bushes. That's when a red, Japanese-styled theater mask popped out, with a fedora where the top of its head should have been.

"BUGAUGHAHOGA!" It hollered, to which the woman screamed in response, falling on the ground. Rod and the other boy (who was holding the mask) cracked up laughing as the brunette blushed wildly.

"You dicks!" She exclaimed, glaring at both of them. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Oh, come on, Patty. It was just a joke!" Matt told her, recovering from his laughing fit.

"Yeah, Patsy, we were just kidding!" Rod attempted to help her up, but she did it on her own. "Come on, like a 'Fedora Spectator' actually exists!"

"He doesn't?" The other girl, the redhead, asked. "By that story, I thought he was real."

"Ha! As _if, _Ally." Matt plopped down on one of the logs. "It was a tale my brother told me the other night."

"It's just a silly old legend."

* * *

><p>"It's just a silly old legend."<p>

_Is that what I've devolved into? _ Linkara thought, looking downtrodden. _A tall-tale that some asshole tells to scare his friends?_

He had listened in on the story the whole way through (it wasn't like he couldn't; Rod was practically screaming the words and acting wildly during it), even though he had already experienced it.

That family in the mountains was real; Linkara had reached a new low when he had stolen some food from the pantry, accessing it through an old, unlocked door. What was he supposed to do? Just starve to death? He had lost the Gun a while back, so hunting wasn't an option, and he didn't recognize berries all-too well. It was even harder considering he had to get rid of the broken lenses from the car wreck, in order to avoid recognition.

The rest of the story came into play; a family member spotted him, he ran before someone could reach him; except for the ending. Yeah, his three former friends did show up, but all of the family had gotten infected. He watched helplessly as the family's eyes were bathed in static, cringing at their yells of terror. That woman was only a fake, sent out in order to infect anyone she came in contact with.

But he _was _on the run; he _was _growing desperate; he _was _losing hope. He'd consider many times before simply giving up and getting taken over by the Entity, just to get it over with. He persisted, though. If he could beat the Entity once, he could sure as _hell_ beat him again.

Still, hearing that story was a huge blow to his morale. He looked down as he trudged away, trying to remember where he was heading. It was a good thing, too.

Because if he had stayed a while longer, he would have witnessed the campers being led astray by the Critic, claiming he needed help after his car broke down.


	6. Recording

"_It's done, the end,_

_MissingNo. grew too much when all is said._

_Linkara, luckily, left behind some tapes;_

_Let's go discover his ultimate fate."_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Five: Recording<strong>

An old camera is on the floor. It's dusty, like it's been there for years. You pick it up; it's the first piece of technology you've seen without static on it since… God, _eons_!

On the bottom of the camera is a ton of old disks. Maybe someone was keeping a video diary? You don't know. You just want to see what's on them.

You turn on the camera; fortunately, it still works. Sitting crisscrossed on the ground, you pick up the top of the pile, labeled "Tape #1". Popping it in, you see the grisly footage of a man. He looks in his late twenties or early thirties. He's paled considerably, his dark eyes have sleep deprivation rings under them, and his hair (the bottom, anyway) is a light brown. On his head there's a brown fedora, with a matching brown vest and tie. He wears gold-rimmed glasses and a buttoned-up white shirt.

"_Hello." _He begins._ "If you're watching this, I'm most likely dead."_

He pauses a moment, considering something. _"Well, _most _likely, anyway. If there's a chance I'm still alive while you're watching this, though, do not – I repeat, do NOT – try to find me. If I'm not there, I'm not there for a reason."_

"_So, you're probably wondering about me. I'm a comic reviewer named Linkara (and yes, I know the name's a bit strange, but bear with me). I lived in Minnesota, and I left my apartment because of the Entity. Now, I don't know what you call it nowadays; the Virus, some disease name, the Beast; or even if it's still around. If it's not, hey, you just stumbled upon a piece of your history, good for you! If it is…"_

He paused. _"Well… I'm sorry. I really am."_

"_Why? Because I've gone against this thing before, and lived to tell the tale. But now… Jesus… I… I just don't know _what_ to do."_

Linkara seemed to realize he was going off track, as the next sentence was, _"I'm going to make several of these little videos. Some could be of very little use to you (as I'll just go off on some rant) but most should be helpful."_

"_Give me a chance, and I'll explain everything."_

* * *

><p>It's night. You've been setting up camp in the woods. Per instructions of the possibly dead man, you picked up all the tapes. You skipped ahead a few to watch Tape #5, sitting by an abysmally small fire. Linkara shows up on the screen, and you get a better look at his location. It seems to be a base of some sort; nothing like you found the footage in. Had he moved since these tapes? The place was bare, with only shelves of supplies in the background.<p>

"_Day Five of this…Log, I guess. After a close encounter with the Entity during a supplies hunt, I managed to get a bit of it on my jacket. I removed the piece and isolated it within a glass jar._" The camera panned to a makeshift laboratory, the piece de resistance the shimmering piece of static in the middle.

_"Since it could function as a two-way communication, I've made precautions and sealed the glass with a soundproofing material. I'm about to experiment on the sample, with the hope of discovering something about the Entity. Genetics, how it returned…hell, an Achilles' heel, if I'm lucky. Nothing of worth to report, otherwise." _

_"Linkara out."_

* * *

><p>It's been a week or two now. Every night you watch one of Linkara's videos. After Tape #5, most logs are just about research he's done or any new revelations. He got an old radio to work in Tape #12, but that's the extent of it.<p>

That is, until Tape #15.

"_Day Fifteen of this Log. This is going to be brief, but I've noticed something strange with the radio I got not too long ago. In various occasions, as I've worked on Sample 000 _(that was what he decided to call the static)_, I've heard… voices. Take a listen."_

He puts the camera next to the crackling old radio. All you hear is a faint buzzing, like on those radio stations that are decommissioned, only leaving white noise in its absence. Linkara, however, seemed to understand something within it.

"_Yeah, it's just that one continuous message. God knows what it actually means, because I certainly can't decipher it. I dunno; maybe it's just the static messing with me. I'll update when I can."_

_"Linkara out."_

* * *

><p>It was about then the vlogs got more...personal. Linkara now spoke about family and friends, loved ones who were tragically lost to the static. Hell, on Tape #21, he complained about the silence; it reminded him too much of the ones he had lost, and how he'd never hear their voices again. He seemed to not be working on Sample 000 anymore, unless he simply forgot to mention it. One particular log stood out to you, though: #31.<p>

"_I can't help but feel this is my fault."_

"_It's been over a month since I started these videos. Every fleeting instant, I've thought about my family and friends. They were an odd sort of bunch, but we had our only crazy standard for normal. I'd review; Nimue maintained the ship; 90's Kid was blissfully unaware of the world; Harvey was the exact opposite, rolling his eyes before smoking or playing cards; Dr. Linksano would still work on that junior chemistry set I gave him a few years back; and Pollo was just... Pollo."_

"_To think, if a few years ago, I hadn't destroyed Missing Number that first time… we'd be doomed, sure… but... What if I just accepted my fate, to be consumed by the Entity? Would I still be with my loved ones? Would've everything stay the same? Would I ever notice a difference?"_

There was a silence. Then, Linkara shook his head.

"_What am I thinking? I did do the right thing, and will _continue _doing that, even on my deathbed! That static's just toying around with me!"_

"_Linkara out."_

* * *

><p>Things in the next few logs took a turn for the worse. It was small, but you could still feel it; it was in his mannerisms, the subtle changes in posture and appearance. At first, his hair was kept fairly neat; now, it looked like a frizzled mess. His clothes looked rougher; those sleep rings under his eyes seemed to grow deeper and deeper with each passing video. He never mentioned it, but you knew what was happening:<p>

The dude was going nuts.

His rants changed a lot, too; they barely connected with what was happening at the present moment. Sometimes he'd trail off so much he forgot what he was initially talking about, and others he just raved about random things _("You know what we need? Someone to review lamps. I don't want to get stuck with crappy lighting just 'cause some asshole didn't tell me what I had to look for in a certain lamp!")_

But what finally made you come to the conclusion he was totally and utterly insane? Tape #45.

"_Day… I dunno, fifty? …of this Log." _He seemed jumpier than usual, his eyes rapidly blinking and looking about. _"Remember back when I found that radio? That Godforsaken, demented radio? Well, it's talking again. Listen!"_

The camera was practically dropped next to the wireless receiver. The radio contained white noise, just as it always had.

Linkara, however, looked at the camera directly, silently pleading for someone else to respond.

"_Can't you hear them?! Every one of those damn names, playing for hours on end! And it never changes! Listen!"_

He changed the station; still static. Again; more static. Again; well, you get the idea. Linkara frantically flipped between dials.

"_Those names! It's been nothing but those names for hours on end! Over and over and over! Allison, Paul, Kyle, Doug, Lindsey, BRAD, TODD, JUSTIN, MATTHEW! IT NEVER STOPS!"_ His hands went over his ears, and you swore you saw a tear go down his face._ "GOD, JUST MAKE IT STOP! IT'S DRIVING ME CRA-!"_

The tape cut off before he could say anything else.

* * *

><p>The next video you popped in showed a calmer Linkara, though still in the manner of before. He was quiet before looking into his hands, sitting on a sofa.<p>

"_I, uh… I realized that I probably overreacted just a smidge in the last tape. I… I don't know what happened. Really, I don't. Everything just seemed like it was dependent on me; I have the weight of the world quite literally on my shoulders. Just the mere thought of the Entity now brings shivers down my spine. The fact it could come back after death…"_

He cleared his throat. "_The tests I've been conducting haven't helped anything; I'm running low on supplies; and I took out the radio batteries just to power this thing. This whole situation… It... It just feels so pointless nowadays."_

There was a long silence. The whole time, Linkara seemed lost in his thoughts. Finally, after five and a half minutes (and yes, you counted), he seemed to remember that the camera was still rolling, and clicked it off.

* * *

><p>The final tape (unlabeled, but you knew it was #55) opened on Linkara, panting, a small bit of sweat on his brow as the camera was in his hands.<p>

"_It's found me. The Entity. I don't know how or why, but it's right outside my door!"_

More panting. _"I can't tell how I'll die, but I know it's going to be soon. My final request goes to anyone who's watching this: stay away from the static. I don't care who or what it's on, but if there's static, it's not what it used to be. That person or thing is gone. No getting it back. Anywhere you see it, run. Run as fast as you, can as far_ away_ as you can. Don't fight; only a fool would do that now. Please, just_ please,_ stay away from it. DO YOU HEAR ME? STAY AWAY!" _There was a sudden swinging open of a door; you see the faint outline of a man. Linkara turns as quickly as he spots the person. _"CRAP!"_

The camera was dropped, cracking with its collision to the floor.

From there on, you can see nothing. You can only see their feet and lower pants leg. Linkara wears grey pants with brown loafers; the other dons blue jeans and black sneakers.

The other infected attempts to get close to Linkara as he backs towards the old lab. The infected says something during this, but nothing picks up on the recording; an offer, perhaps? Linkara faintly mumbles what sounds like an apology (maybe to the man inside, as in Tape #10 he partially explained how the Entity worked. Were they once friends?) and you hear a distinct spraying sound as the other man hisses. Linkara drops what he was holding (a punctured bottle of pressurized air, as you discover) and dashes out. However, the other man isn't far behind, following shortly after.

For the next few hours, you know nothing. Not a sound is heard, not a person seen.

Suddenly, something registers: footsteps.

And they belong to Linkara, as you recognize the loafers and grey pants.

You sigh in relief as the ex-reviewer goes to the old camera, picking up the cracked object. However, the moment you see his face, something feels…off. Nothing looks strange; it's still that same face you've been seeing over the course of the videos. But he's smiling; it's a big one, too.

Instant alarm bells ring in your head.

Something's up.

"_Hi, it's me. So, I suppose I should clear up a something real quick, just before the battery dies. That stuff I said before, about staying away from static?"_

"_Ignore it. All of it."_

"_Never in my life have I felt so welcomed and accepted. Experiencing true perfection is glorious; everything makes so much sense. So, don't fear the static. See it on your friend? Shake their hand. On an animal? Pet it. On your phone? Put it next to your ear. Let it consume you, for it is the greatest achievement you shall ever recieve. I wish to see you soon within the Entity." _He looks off to the side. _"Anything you care to add, Critic?"_

He turns the camera towards his advisory; blue jeans, from before. He looked monstrous. His eyes were geysers for the static, oozing down his cheeks and towards his neck. He no longer looked human. By his face, you're not sure if he ever _was _one! He looked like a freak of nature. A perversion of the natural order. An error in humanity.

A glitch in the program.

"_N̩̗̻͍̬̤ͯo͒.̺͍͊ ͍̃͛̀ͦ̆͑ͫḘ̗̬̬̝̬̗̒͊ͤv̫̖̱͕͔̞̰ͮė̪̬̓̆̈́ř̺̲ͧ͗ͥ͂͊ỷ̪̻͎̻̖̐͐͋ẗ̖̮͓͉̬ͯ́̇̿ͅh̻͔̱͓͖ín̞̤ͅg̉ͪ͐̅ͩ͐ͤ ̟̩̟ͮͩi͙̗̹͉̲̣s̤̽ ̝j͕͔̗̮̤̑͒͌̓u̙͛͗ͨͧ̈͐ͤs̮t̜ͫ ̠̖̘̼f̋̾̂i͈͚̿̚n̻̗̗͕͔ͩ̔͐̉ͩͬ̚ȇ̫͚̦̊́.ͫͤͭ̄" _He replies; the voice sends shivers down your spine.

The tape cut off.

_**-Fin-**_


End file.
